


The Smallest Sacrifices

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the small sacrifices that make the biggest difference. Galahad runs from the service and it's up to the Knights to trail after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smallest Sacrifices

In retrospect, they should have seen it coming.  
  
At the time, however, no one thought to see what was right in front of their faces because the implications of such a thought, such an epiphany would have been terrible to behold because then you would have been the  _one_  who had  _known_. And that was a terrible thing to have on your head. Gawain certainly didn’t want to admit that he’d had suspicions that something like this may have happened. While battling the Woads, Gareth had been killed. It had torn Gawain apart, but that was nothing compared to the pain it had wreaked on Galahad.   
  
Galahad, who had already been having a rough month. Galahad, who had expressed distaste for the service and had once threatened to kill himself to rid the duty to Rome. Galahad, the only Knight left at the garrison save for Lancelot while they planned to chase the Woads to the wall.  
  
The Knights, after all, were not master planners or anything of the like. Arthur may have contested for this position, but he was thick in plans to put up a defense that would protect the legions of Rome for at least another year (two at the most). The others had simply not given it any thought (a mistake which they would soon learn never to repeat).   
  
Gawain, in particular, was most displeased with himself. He was the one who had known, after all. What else could that night have been about, the one where he had bought Galahad drink after drink after drink, planning to get him absolutely smashed and possibly cheer him up. Gareth had wandered off to give them some privacy and Gawain was not going to accept defeat.   
  
“I’m miserable here,” Galahad quietly confided over his ale. “I’m forgetting all there is to remember about home.”  
  
“We’re all miserable,” Gawain muttered. “Besides, it’s only been nine years of service. There’s much more misery to come.”  
  
“I hate it,” Galahad snapped childishly. “And I want out.”  
  
“There is no out,” Gawain told him. He shook his head. “Just death.”   
  
And that, yes, that may have been the moment where Gawain could have done something to prevent the next three months of pain and misery. Instead, he had done nothing but buy Galahad another round of ale and wenches. Gawain had stumbled off to bed that night weary, smelling all the part of a drunkard, and content that he had solved Galahad’s problem with a few pretty coins.  
  
No problem was solved.  
  
In fact, their trouble had just begun.   
  
“You’ll want to put some herbs on that burn,” Tristan advised, rolling down the cuff of Gawain’s breeches. “They’ve got good aim,” he remarked with respect. “The arrow looks like it trailed all the way down the side of your calf. It must be painful.”  
  
“You know,” Gawain rolled his eyes. “I was going to say it felt like bliss, but no, no, you’re absolutely right. It’s painful.”  
  
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Tristan said, rolling down the breeches again. “It just makes you look like a bitter woman.”  
  
“Would it help you if I took a swing at you? More manly?”  
  
“Actually, that would just make you appear a moody, bitter woman,” Tristan replied easily, getting up swiftly and walking back to grab a cloth, handing it to Gawain. “Wrap it up tightly, clean it properly and you might get a reprieve from the pain in about three weeks. In the meantime, complain to Lancelot when we return.”   
  
“Or just kill you in your sleep,” Gawain muttered under his breath, mounting his horse and preparing to ride back. They hadn’t seen Lancelot or Galahad in weeks after chasing the Woads back to the wall and killing a good number in the process. Arthur was leading them back slowly, not in any sort of rush. Gawain knew why. The moment they came back to their ‘home’, one of the first sights was the sword stuck in the ground. Gareth’s sword.   
  
There it was as they went riding past, blazing in the ground like a bad memory and all too soon to recall. The burn on Gawain’s leg flared as he cantered by slowly, his eyes drawn to the way the sun glinted off the sword. That was Gareth’s final statement to the world that had been so cruel to him, the final thing he received was one last stroke of the sword into the earth.   
  
Gawain never hated this service more than he did when he saw the graves.   
  
They rode back in sheer silence, not looking to one another. The group of them (all eleven knights that remained) had been injured in some way. Even Tristan had a few good scars from the battle. When they reached the stables, Gawain dismounted, surprised that neither Lancelot nor Galahad was there to greet them. He made his way around, cleaning up briefly and went straight to the tavern.  
  
“Vanora, where’s my whipping boy?” he asked in greeting. Bors was further behind, having stopped at Gareth’s grave. “The younger of the two, of course,” he smirked, pressing a polite kiss to her hand.   
  
She gave him a disquieted look and beckoned him back. Gawain frowned and followed her, suddenly uneasy and he really didn’t want to hear what she had to tell him. They slipped behind the bar and around the corner.  
  
“He’s gone,” Vanora said quietly with a deep frown, her face etched with worry.   
  
“What?” Gawain hissed, his eyes wide. He wrapped one hand around her wrist to get her undivided attention. “What do you mean,  _gone_?”  
  
“I mean, he’s gone,” Vanora snapped back, all the worry shed as quickly as water was shed from a dog shaking its coat. Her voice was coated with irritation. “I saw him as he went on his way and he begged me to turn a blind eye.”  
  
“Where’s Lancelot? Why didn’t he stop this?”  
  
“Lancelot has been moving relics to and from the nearest town as per the Romans orders,” Vanora commented, crossing her arms and pulling away from Gawain’s grasp. “He’s been gone for nearly as long as you boys have been away.”  
  
“That’s four weeks,” Gawain snarled, turning to punch his fist against the wall. He paced about and ran his hands through his hair, taking deep breaths and trying to school his anger. “All right,” he said to himself. He met Vanora’s gaze. “All right…”  
  
“You have to tell Arthur,” she told him.  
  
“I know!”  
  
“And you have to do it soon,” she confided quietly. “None of the Romans know. Not a single one. I don’t think even Lancelot knows, but he’ll be back soon, so you…”  
  
“Fine,” Gawain interrupted, shaking his head. “I’m going to kill him.”  
  
“The Romans might get there first,” Vanora commented, walking off and leaving Gawain to his own devices, forcing him to march straight over to Arthur and inform him about the latest development. Gawain sighed and stormed off, all the while muttering under his breath. He found Arthur in the stables discussing something Lancelot and Tristan.   
  
“Gawain,” Lancelot grinned. “Where’s your better half?”  
  
Gawain shook his head, internally wincing at the seemingly perfect timing for Lancelot to say something so stupid. He immediately turned his attention to Arthur. “We have a problem,” he said in his gravest tone. “And it has everything to do with my so-called better half.”  
  
“What happened?” Arthur asked. Tristan turned slightly so that they formed a loose circle now. “In fact, where  _is_  Galahad?” Arthur went on, his voice hushed.  
  
“Gone.”  
  
“What do you mean, gone?” Lancelot furrowed his brow. “He was here when I left to transport the relics. Incidentally, Arthur, you’re lucky I didn’t slay a few Romans in the process. Useless bastards,” he grumbled.  
  
“Galahad is gone?” Arthur asked evenly.  
  
“Yes,” Gawain admitted.   
  
They stood there in silence for a good minute or so.   
  
“You know what the penalty for desertion is,” Tristan said mildly, polishing his sword. Gawain turned severely to look at him, not holding back any venom in this look. Tristan merely raised an eyebrow in calm reply. Gawain was ready to sputter something in protest, feeling at a loss here in this makeshift council. “I didn’t suggest the punishment. Thank the Romans.”  
  
“Arthur, you wouldn’t…” Gawain turned again, pleading. They stood in a circle, these hushed talks and whispers that held Galahad’s fate. “He’s a Knight,” Gawain shouted now. “He’s one of  _us!_ ” He spat on the ground behind him. “You hold your loyalty to Rome. Has Rome given you years of its life? Has Rome gone into battle for you? Has Rome ever been a eight-year-old boy plucked from his home?”  
  
“Gawain…” Arthur interrupted, holding up one hand.  
  
“You cannot put him to death!” Gawain finished, raging on at the top of his lungs. “Drag him back, lock him away, but do not take away his life unless you mean to kill me as you do him.”  
  
“You’d willingly die if he were sentenced to death?” Lancelot asked quietly, bracing one hand on the hilt of his sword.   
  
“Wouldn’t you?” Gawain challenged. “He’d do the same for any of us, stubborn bastard.”  
  
There was a quiet moment.  
  
“He would,” Tristan finally spoke. He took a look at the now-clean sword before putting it away with a confident nod. “I’ll lead a search party to track him down. He’s got about three weeks of an advance, but there will still be tracks.” Tristan stopped, turning to look at Arthur. “Unless I’m bringing back a man whose life is forfeit?”  
  
Arthur hesitated, looking around and weighing thoughts (so Gawain supposed). He had a terrible look of contemplation on his face and every second that passed seemed to be terrible news for Galahad. Finally, Arthur’s gaze lingered on Gawain and he looked down at the ground.   
  
“God help me if I put an innocent man to death for leaving a life of misery,” Arthur spoke quietly, looking up. “Lancelot, Tristan. You two are to get Dagonet and Kay. Leave as soon as you can, but if anyone inquires, you’re helping to move the last of the relics to a town over ten leagues.”  
  
Lancelot and Tristan nodded, leaving.  
  
Gawain stayed.  
  
“Gawain, go to rest,” Arthur ordered. “You’ve still got the burns from those arrows and I don’t trust them to heal properly unless you rest.” He hesitated and shifted before he continued to speak. “I will have to do something about Galahad, you realize. If only a severe punishment, or a public flogging.”  
  
Gawain nodded.  
  
“Go,” Arthur repeated.  
  
“I’m not going to rest,” Gawain quietly said. “Send me instead of Kay. You have to. I want the tactile pleasure of forcibly dragging him back kicking and screaming. It can be my birthday gift. Please,” he ended quietly. “You also know that I’d have better luck in getting him back.”  
  
“I’m not so sure that getting him back is a good idea at this point in time,” Arthur mused to himself. “Fine. Go and tell Tristan that you’re to go with them. The Romans are not to know about this. For all they know, Galahad is out scouting.”   
  
“He’s out scouting,” Gawain repeated dubiously, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Would you like to tell them that they can put a man to death?” Arthur snapped, storming away. “Go and tell Tristan you’re going, and return back here within two months if you can. He  _will_  face punishment,” Arthur added in a severe tone.  
  
Gawain nodded and made his way to the stables to find the others suiting up silently. He made his way over to Kay, tapping him on the shoulder and whispering that he could go and rest. Without so much as a word in reply, Kay nodded and left, loosely saluting the remaining three before closing the door.  
  
“So you’re coming with us?” Tristan asked.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“We’re bringing him back through whatever means necessary,” Lancelot warned. “And I am not going to be averse to a little force. Miserable brat,” he muttered under his breath as he mounted the horse.   
  
“So long as I get to be the one to apply the force,” Gawain snarled, grabbing the saddle. “He’s caused me enough discomfort for three lifetimes. I want the first swing at the little bastard.”  
  
“I’ll fight you for it,” Lancelot grumbled.  
  
“I’ll win.”  
  
They rode immediately that night. Gawain scoffed to himself as they set out by the moonlight, thinking how perfectly timed all this was. Now he didn’t even need to unpack his overnight equipment, he could use it again. They lingered behind Tristan by about a half-mile, always waiting for signals as to which way they were turning.   
  
“We’ll need to find transport over the water,” Dagonet quietly commented as they cantered along. His words had both Lancelot and Gawain’s attention. “This wasn’t just him running.”  
  
“He wanted to go home,” Gawain finished the thought, staring straight forward as he felt guilt begin to bite at him. “Of course,” he said harshly. “He wanted to go back.”  
  
“This isn’t your doing,” Lancelot said mildly. “It was a stupid and stubborn move by a child.”  
  
“Funny,” Gawain rolled his eyes. “Him still being a child, who would think that his actions might be immature. I can’t believe we never took that into consideration. What I want to know is why he was left behind while we left.”  
  
“He was in no shape to fight,” Lancelot replied curtly. “You take him out on the battlefield and he would have died. There’s no uncertainty in that. I know it, Arthur knows it, and you know it as well, Gawain. Don’t start judging battle techniques that you would not have done differently. Think ahead. Think of just how bruised Galahad will be when I’m through with him,” he said snidely, glaring at Gawain as though he transformed into Galahad in the last few moments. “I was supposed to have time to relax,” he grumbled.  
  
“You could have stayed back. I would have come on my own,” Gawain commented quietly.  
  
There was a quiet moment, the sound of the hoofs loud on the ground. “We’re in this together,” Dagonet finally said.   
  
“Good,” Gawain said tersely, riding forward to join Tristan.   
  
They traveled in silence that night.  
  
***  
  
After a turbulent week at sea, another campaign across the earth, and a nostalgic and painful homecoming to Sarmatia, they had finally reached their destination. Tristan and Dagonet had spoken to locals on the move and through some talk, they had discovered where Galahad’s tribe was moving towards. Tristan said it was hopeful that they could run them off at the woods when they camped at night.  
  
Gawain was sick of this, his patience was thin and his temper was short.   
  
So when they came up on the tents of Galahad’s tribe, Gawain was ready to end this. He managed to convince the others that he alone was able to do this, and by torchlight, he crept slowly towards the tents, finding Galahad’s by the sword stuck in the ground outside of the canvas. Gawain shook his head, sneaking into the tent and finding Galahad sleeping on the ground, looking quite peaceful.   
  
Gawain took a moment to appreciate the sincerity of a child’s face in the night, lit only by the torch that sat outside (dug in the ground beside the sword). Gawain stood there in appreciation for one more moment, noting with pleasure that Galahad was not sharing his tent. He bent down and grasped Galahad with both hands, dragging him to his feet and pulling him outside the tent into the woods, all the while Galahad was waking.  
  
“Get off,” Galahad shouted, his words heavy with sleep as he took a clumsy swing at Gawain, his eyes not opened. Gawain shook his head, pushing Galahad to his feet. Galahad went stumbling back slightly and Gawain took two steps forward as they descended into the woods.   
  
Gawain, furious now, swung with his right fist, landing a punch on Galahad’s jaw, he followed that with a matching punch with the left fist and tackled him to the ground, feeling the last of the anger abate, only the remnants of his rage lingering now. Galahad looked up, confused, upset and betrayed at Gawain whose body was covering Galahad’s own.  
  
“Gawain?” Galahad whispered with confusion.  
  
“Shut up,” Gawain ordered, his breath ragged. “I don’t want to talk to you.”  
  
Galahad tentatively rested his forehead on Gawain’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured miserably. Gawain slowly roused himself to get to his feet, brushing stray leaves off him in the process. Galahad seemed fully awake now, sitting up and looking up with some manner of fear in his face. Gawain scoffed, looking askance to avoid looking in those eyes and turned to walk away.  
  
There was the sound of Galahad scrambling to their feet behind him. “I am sorry! I couldn’t take it any longer.”  
  
“Like we can?” Gawain muttered to himself.   
  
“And I had to leave. I had to go before I died, before anything worse happened. I couldn’t just stay there and watch you die, one by one,” Galahad kept pursuing Gawain, speaking as though he were at his rope’s end. “I hate that life, I hate it all, and I can’t do it.”  
  
Gawain turned quickly to find Galahad had been shadowing him by only a scant metre. Galahad stumbled back slightly as Gawain stalked forward (imposing, fierce, feral) and did everything in his power to keep the rage from resurfacing.   
  
“You  _left_  in the middle of your service to Rome,” Gawain hissed, “which makes this desertion. Do you know what they do? Do you know what would have happened if a single Roman other than Arthur knew what happened? You would be  _dead_!” he slowly snapped out word after word. “At the least, you’ll be publicly flogged now, you will be punished.”  
  
“I missed home,” Galahad mildly replied, looking down.  
  
“You’re going to be beaten when we return, no one’s going to trust you for years to come and you will always,  _always_  be looked down upon as the child you are because of this stupid stunt,” Gawain yelled at the top of his lungs, using his hands to back up his point, nearly smacking Galahad in the face again. “And most of all, most of all, you stupid, stupid  _idiot_ , you bastard, you son of a whore, you left without saying goodbye!”  
  
He opened his mouth to yell further, but found his fury could not come across properly in words. He turned and stormed away, but this time, Galahad gave quick chase, cutting him off with a devastated look on his face.  
  
“Go away,” Gawain mumbled.  
  
“Please. I’m sorry,” Galahad repeated.  
  
“Go tell that to the others,” he waved him away.   
  
“Others?”  
  
“Tristan, Lancelot, and Dagonet. I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms. In fact, Lancelot was already planning on welcoming you with open fists and Tristan had a sound policy started in which every day you were away is a cut with his knife,” Gawain said, giving an off-kilter smirk.  
  
Galahad paled at this, his face wounded.   
  
“Go on, then,” Gawain shoved him away. “Go to what you’ve earned.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Galahad whispered again, not moving once he made his way back to where he stood only a metre from Gawain. He looked wrecked, precisely as though a stray dog might look had you kicked it once, twice, perhaps a dozen times. “Please,” he begged brokenly. “Gawain, I never wanted you to be hurt. I couldn’t live to see you be hurt. I had to leave before we all died, one by one. If you had been next…if you had been next, I would have killed myself anyway. This was better.”  
  
“For the sake of your limbs,” Gawain said tiredly, “shut up and go back to see the others.”   
  
“I’m not leaving your side,” Galahad replied stubbornly.   
  
“You’ve done it once already,” Gawain rolled his eyes. “It shouldn’t be so hard to recall what you did.” He turned to walk away, but yet again, Galahad followed in close pursuit. He rolled his eyes and turned. “Galahad, stop! You aren’t going to win me back by becoming my shadow!”  
  
“Let me try,” Galahad pleaded.   
  
“Go see the others,” Gawain said wearily, pointing to the tent. Galahad finally turned and walked away. Gawain stood there, watching him go before dropping down to the ground and sitting upon a low log in the forest. He shook his head and ran his hands through his hair, scratching his head every so often.   
  
Galahad was frustrating, that much was certain. But really, what was Gawain most upset about? It was a chore to have to come all this way to drag him back, but it was well worth it. Gawain didn’t intend to live out the rest of his servitude without his best friend. So then, perhaps the deep issue and grudge that Gawain was bearing was simply due to the fact that Galahad  _hadn’t_  said a proper goodbye.   
  
And Gawain reminded himself grudgingly that his feelings of affection for Galahad had been reaching a peak in the last few months. To have him depart without so much as a word or a simple action was a harsh blow to his sense of worth. Admiration, that was all really. He had a degree of interest in Galahad (and yes, when Gawain truly admitted it, the interest could be something of a sexual nature, but those were things to be admitted by the cover of secrecy).   
  
The next step now, of course, was to show him open arms. Gawain could imagine all sorts of nightmarish scenarios heading back to Britain if the Galahad they brought with them was not a settled Galahad.   
  
And besides the point, Gawain had a suspicious inkling of an idea that he could not stay angry with Galahad for that long.   
  
*  
  
It was a good few hours before Gawain returned back to the tent they had set up. He had decided that perchance a walk might settle his head and he had been right in his assumption. His thoughts were clearer than they had been before and it gave the others some time to take out their anger on Galahad.   
  
He pushed in the tent to find Galahad looking down, Lancelot glowering, and Dagonet with one hand visibly restraining him. Tristan was cleaning up his knife, a satisfied set to his face. Gawain raised an eyebrow and silently crept forward to Galahad, pushing aside the arm he was clutching and noting the intricate knife work up the forearm.   
  
“I decided against one for each day,” Tristan said evenly, sheathing the knife back into its place on his chest. Gawain caught the irritated rolling of Galahad’s eyes and noted that there were some bruises on his arm as well. “The bruises are Lancelot’s.”  
  
“He wasn’t hurt,” Dagonet interrupted before Gawain even had the chance to speak. Gawain looked over with a glare. “Simply reprimanded.”   
  
“It will be the nine tails when we get back,” Lancelot warned.   
  
“I don’t care,” Galahad finally looked up and snapped. His attention went directly to Gawain. “Are you still angry? I’ll do whatever your will until you speak to me again. I’ll do anything for you to trust me.”  
  
“Anything?”  
  
“Anything,” Galahad confirmed swiftly, looking desperate.   
  
Gawain paused, feeling a sudden rush of too much power go through him. His eyes fell to study the red on Galahad’s arm, storing a mental note to take care of that before he did anything. He stepped forward, sitting down in front of Galahad, not minding the presence of the others as he searched for his canteen of water and poured some over a cloth, gently wiping away at the small cuts.   
  
“Since this entire effort was a search for you, and this effort has ravaged my hair, you can redo the braids. They’ve come loose in the process,” Gawain said, his attention downwards on Galahad’s arm. “Mind you, that’s merely a start. You’ll owe me for years to come. And don’t even begin to think that I’ll stop Lancelot from going at you again, at least not for another day or so. Tristan, however,” Gawain glared, “won’t do any more, because I thought we were only kidding about the knife.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” Tristan replied lightly, giving back a challenging look of his own.   
  
Gawain rolled his eyes now, tying off a light knot around his forearm and carefully watching Galahad as he winced and tenderly touched the cloth. From there, he immediately looked to Gawain and gave a hopeful, expectant look.  
  
“I can braid them,” he said with a swift nod. “Come, let me.”  
  
Gawain sputtered a laugh, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“I really didn’t mean for…”  
  
Galahad beckoned him closer, and Gawain snorted with more laughter as he shifted, the torches burning from outside, giving them very little proper light to work with. Gawain settled in, resting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes. The day had worn him out, and now the feeling of warm fingers slowly running through his hair was a warm and welcome sensation. He even let out the smallest of pleased noises when Galahad’s fingers gently massaged at his scalp, collecting bits of hair and tugging easily to form the braids.  
  
“You’re doing it all wrong,” Tristan interrupted some time soon after (when it was, Gawain wasn’t sure).   
  
“No,” Gawain murmured, his voice heavy and sated. “Don’t let him help.” He opened one eye and eyed Tristan dubiously. “I’ll end up a human canvas. I’veseen how many markings you’ve burned onto yourself. I don’t trust my body to those hands.”  
  
“And yet, it’s fine in Galahad’s,” Tristan remarked with amusement.   
  
Gawain opened both eyes now, staring Tristan down and not bothering to search for a response to deny the remark. Galahad’s hands remained swift with the braids, setting them quickly and every so often, Gawain noticed that the pads of his fingers would slowly caress down his neck, running through Gawain’s hair. Gawain closed his eyes again, curling back into the touch. He seemed to lose his grasp on time, finding that the sensation of warm and attentive hands was something all too easy to lose himself to.   
  
It was soon after that he received a pat on the head.   
  
“Finished,” Galahad said in his ear, a satisfied tone to his voice.  
  
“Has he made a mockery of me?” Gawain did not look back, but instead asked Tristan.   
  
“It’s presentable,” Tristan conceded. “I would have fared better.”  
  
“You say that in regard to everything,” Lancelot scoffed, not bothering to mask the disdain in his voice. He gave a great yawn, settling under a blanket. “Now, I’d like to sleep, if I might. We have to ride back tomorrow across an entire land because of an insolent child.”   
  
Galahad looked down, his expression sullen again. Gawain had turned enough to settle into his bunk, shaking his head and offering the blanket to Galahad, their motions becoming routine as they settled in for the night. Galahad pressed into Gawain in a move that might seem almost like a child curving to its mother. Gawain merely lay there, adjusting once more to the warmth. It felt good to know that some things were back to normal.  
  
***  
  
Upon arriving back at the garrison, Galahad had taken the flogging considerably well, not begging for it to end once, not letting out a single scream and in the end, he had merely turned and nodded to Arthur, apologizing once again before silently walking off to his room. Gawain had thought that the ordeal was over.  
  
Gawain had been incredibly wrong.   
  
He knew it when he saw Galahad walk away silently, without much pomp and circumstance or even the slightest of rebellious actions. It had seemed that a part of him had died the morning they left the camp, after Galahad had bid his family goodbye once more. Galahad was supposed to be impulsive, he was supposed to be irritating. Lately, he’d been sullen, quiet, and had been turning into too much of a miniature Tristan for Gawain’s liking. Gawain had taken to following Galahad around the garrison, noting with displeasure that Galahad seemed to be walking through the motions of everything he did, training with his eyes half-dead, walking about in a fit of apathy, and generally acting as though he were an entirely different person.   
  
And really, it might have been blind luck that led Gawain to follow Galahad out to the woods on that one day that could have been the end of it all. He had been rounding through the forests, having lost Galahad a few moments prior.   
  
“Do it then. You’ve got no witnesses,” Galahad was saying disdainfully to someone in the woods.   
  
Gawain kicked his horse to gain more speed, finally careening around the last corner and dismounting to find Galahad on his knees with a sword to his throat. Gawain watched in horror, creeping forward slowly as he recognized that face. It was  _Merlin_ , of all people, holding a blade to Galahad’s throat.  
  
“No,” Gawain said, his voice thick and broken. He stumbled forward now, Merlin’s attention now fully on him. Galahad was angling back to look, not moving though, as the blade hadn’t moved off his throat. “Stop,” he faltered slightly, holding out one hand. “Take my life for his, don’t kill him.”  
  
Merlin pulled the blade away slightly, enough of a distance for Galahad to stumble back, crawling back on his bottom and sliding away from the danger. He sat on the ground in front of Gawain, warily looking up. Merlin looked at both of them with consideration and narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Arthur’s Knights?” he asked, the words seemingly containing heavy importance. Gawain nodded slowly, feeling as though he was trapped in molasses. “And you would forfeit your life for his?” he asked Gawain.   
  
Gawain felt as though he were in the midst of a waking dream, floating above everything and through the world as he was caught in Merlin’s gaze. He nodded slowly, not able to break the eye contact. Merlin’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes narrow and cold.  
  
“I could kill the both of you. Why shouldn’t I?” Merlin asked.  
  
“My life for his,” Gawain repeated, stepping forward. “Take me back to your Woads, let them take me, torture me…”  
  
“No,” Galahad was protesting, tugging on the side of Gawain’s clothes.  
  
“…and do what they will,” Gawain finished, not looking down.   
  
Merlin’s smile turned into something more sympathetic now. He shook his head slowly, putting the blade away and turning to call something over his shoulder in his native language, the words barked and forceful. Slowly, Merlin turned his attention back towards Gawain and Galahad and bowed forward.  
  
“Your lives are your own,” he said. “For I do not risk the rage of Arthur Castus when he has two Knights pure and noble enough to sacrifice their lives for one another. We will meet again one day,” he finished, fading away into the forest and seemingly breaking the spell that had been holding Gawain so still.   
  
Gawain turned, feeling as though he hadn’t used his muscles in a good year and found that Galahad had stumbled to his feet and was regarding Gawain with such a cold rage that for a moment, he was unsure as to the grievance he had caused.  
  
“What are you doing?” Galahad shouted angrily, pushing Gawain with both hands. “Are you an absolute idiot?”  
  
“He was going to kill you,” Gawain snapped back, just as angrily. “And I was supposed to let it go by?”  
  
“Don’t speak for my life!” Galahad raged, his hands tight on Gawain’s biceps, but not trying to move him anywhere, merely clasping onto him. His fingers dug in hard, threatening to leave little marks and bruises. “Stop doing things for me and let me live my life!”  
  
“You wouldn’t have a life if not for me,” Gawain challenged him, jutting out his chin and placing one hand on Galahad’s hip, intending to push him away, but caught with the words. “If not for me, what would you have done after the first battle where I gave you my shield? When I killed the Woads that would have run you through with a knife? When I helped convince Arthur to hunt you down just weeks ago, and just now! Galahad, your life is always in my hands. You don’t understand that.”  
  
“Gawain…” Galahad began to protest.  
  
“Shut up,” Gawain ordered, his eyes blazing, their bodies pressing closer now and the heat between them almost inhuman. “Do not tell me that I can’t fight for your life. Do  _not_  tell me that I cannot save you, because you are mine to save. Remember, Galahad. Can’t you recall? You said it yourself, you said you wouldn’t leave my side. You gave yourself up to me when you let me protect you. You are  _mine_ , Galahad. Mine,” he said defensively.   
  
He waited for Galahad to respond, noticing only now that they were so close that they could feel each other’s breath. He noticed only then that they had drifted even closer together in the process of their arguing, and Gawain only noticed then that they still clung to each other. His breathing ragged and his brain hazy with rage, he did the only thing he could think to do and pressed forward, claiming Galahad’s lips with a savage and rough kiss, pushing their bodies together completely and tugging on Galahad’s bottom lip as he pushed his tongue into Galahad’s mouth, roaming aggressively and pulling Galahad ever closer by his hip, the hand frantically roaming under Galahad’s tunic and grasping fists of material.   
  
After a moment, their teeth clacking together and Galahad’s tongue meeting Gawain’s own, they pulled away slightly, Gawain’s eyes wide and his breathing heavy.   
  
“Yours,” Galahad gasped out. “I’m yours?”  
  
“You always were,” Gawain growled possessively, leaning in again for another round, this kiss just as fierce and frantic as the first, but now it seemed that Galahad’s body was leaning into his and submitting to Gawain’s will.   
  
Gawain fumbled with his hands, searching his body and finally finding the small knife and holding it up, his hands trembling slightly as he made a cut on the inside of his palm, holding it up as it slowly dripped with blood, the droplets staining the ground crimson. He handed the knife to Galahad.  
  
“Swear to me,” Gawain quietly demanded. “In blood, swear to me.”  
  
“A promise?”  
  
“You said you’d do anything,” Gawain reminded him, holding out his hand. “Swear to me you’ll stay by my side. Give me your word and put blood to it. Swear that you’ll stay mine.”  
  
Galahad looked briefly from the knife back to his own hand and then, with a sure and swift stroke, he made a long, shallow cut down his hand, clutching the knife as he grasped Gawain’s bloodied hand into his own, pressing them together. Gawain winced slightly at the harsh force of Galahad’s hand, but marked the serious look on Galahad’s face and knew that this was a promise that would not be broken.   
  
“I swear,” Galahad promised.   
  
And in retrospect, Gawain should have seen that coming from far off.   
  
He always preferred to be surprised though.


End file.
